Radele’s hand trembled and fell, and he watched uncertainly as I moved past him toward the door. Unfortunately, I didn’t get very far. A tall, straight-backed man in red filled the doorway.
“Ah, Preceptor Ven’Dar, none of this… ” I felt the abrupt starved dizziness of a Word Winder whose cast has been snapped before completion, something like having one’s stomach and eyes excised at the same moment. It is a most distressing sensation, especially when one suspects something even more unpleasant is to follow.
Men’Thor was an imposing man. His padded doublet was elaborately embroidered and immaculately clean, his boots brushed. His gray hair and beard were trimmed and neat. His whole demeanor cried a reproach to my sand- and sweat-crusted skin and my rumpled shirt and breeches, though he, too, had come here from the battlefield.
I reeled in my cast, taking a breath and squeezing my eyes shut for a moment to convince my mind that my body was still attached. Of course, as I recovered, I considered whether to cast again. Men’Thor, whose expression never changed, whose voice was always calm and equitable, and whose mind could not be influenced once it was settled on an idea, was a very powerful sorcerer. I was likely stronger. But I was not interested in dueling with any Dar’Nethi, as long as the man prevented his son’s vicious foolery. Though Men’Thor and I disagreed on many matters, including strategy and ethics, we shared a common enemy - the Zhid and the Lords. So I held back.
The only unpleasantness I had to endure for the moment was Men’Thor herding me back toward Radele, appropriating my chair that his son had so recently vacated, and lecturing us both like schoolboys. “Master Ven’Dar would be well within his rights to have you exiled, boy! How shall a father represent his fool of a son to repair such injury? How shall a Dar’Nethi justify raising his hand to his Preceptor or a Preceptor to one of his own brother Dar’Nethi, while, at the very moment, the Vale of Seraph burns at the hand of the Lords of Zhev’Na?”
“Seraph!” I said. Seraph, the southernmost Vale of Eidolon, was a land of sparkling streams, green hillsides, and white cliffs hung with red-flowered vines. Its perennial springtime produced the sweetest airs in Gondai. The white stone towns and villages housed hardy folk who prided themselves on their abundant fields of grapes so near the edge of the Wastes.
But the significance of Men’Thor’s news stretched well beyond the tragedy of a bountiful land touched by war. Since the earliest years of our war with the Lords, when they ravaged Grithna, Erdris, and Pylathia, the Zhid had been barred from the Vales. We had thought the remaining Vales secure as long as Avonar stood.
“Our enemies have penetrated the southern wards and struck the towns of Tanis and Ephah, withdrawing before the Prince could respond,” said Men’Thor, shaking his head. “But the Lords’ true power is revealed. Tomorrow the Prince will walk the ruins of Ephah, knowing that the fate of the world hangs by the thinnest of threads. If the Zhid can take the Vales, untouched for a thousand years, Avonar can be surrounded. And that will be the end, as surely as if the Lords’ plot to destroy the Bridge had succeeded or the demon son been anointed Heir.”
“How was it possible?” I said. “The Watch… ”
“Someone has compromised the Vale Watch. Though only the Prince and the Preceptors knew the secret of the watch, such an event was hardly unexpected now the Destroyer has shown himself.”
“The Prince will be forced to listen to you now, Father,” said Radele. “Take down the Destroyer first, then Zhev’Na itself.”
“You assume it’s the Prince’s son who has caused this?” I said.
“The Prince believes it,” said Men’Thor. “He says it’s possible the Destroyer has read everything of Avonar’s defense from him. As soon as he is able, he will come here to extract the Destroyer’s plan from our prisoner. Then we’ll rid the world of the demon son.”
“I don’t grasp your logic, Men’Thor. We’ve had no luck flushing the Lords from Zhev’Na in all these years. If the boy has joined them in their stronghold, their position will be all but impregnable.”
“If such is the case, the Prince says he will lead the host of Avonar against Zhev’Na.” Doom and awe gave shape to Men’Thor’s words, leaching the color from the lamplight.
“At last!” cried Radele. “His eyes are opened!” He strode briskly to the window and gripped the sill as if his own eyes might witness the new battle already engaged.
My spirit recoiled at Radele’s glee. The host of Avonar against Zhev’Na… Our last resort. Every man, woman, and child to march on the desert fortress wielding sticks and swords and magic in a monstrous, mad crusade that would result in the annihilation of either the Lords or the Dar’Nethi. Ustele and his family had been championing such an impossible assault for generations. They had long proclaimed that it was only our hesitation - our doubt in our own power and our reluctance to commit ourselves - that had caused the war to last so long. But to buy our safety with slaughter… even in victory we would lose.
“This is madness, Men’Thor,” I said. “The Prince will never agree to such a plan. I know his true heart, and if I have to stand vigil and cast for a thousand nights, I will convince him to renounce this absurdity.”
“Let me tell you what is madness, Preceptor,” said Men’Thor. “A Prince who cannot tell you his name from one day to the next. A Prince whose loyalties are compromised to the verge of corruption, whose ‘true heart’ is fixed on a mundane woman and a boy who gave his eyes and his soul to become the Fourth Lord of Zhev’Na. An Heir of D’Arnath who can no longer offer the most rudimentary service of his healing gift.”
His voice flowed with the grave sincerity he used with equal skill to notify a mother of her warrior daughter’s death or to mediate a disagreement with his tailor. It was Men’Thor the Effector’s unflappable rationality that had convinced many Dar’Nethi that he was better equipped to lead us than our passionate Prince.
“For a thousand years, Ven’Dar, we have allowed the Lords to taunt us and feed on our weakness, to keep us prisoned behind our walls and hiding in our little valleys as if this were the life Dar’Nethi were born to. Now they are a hand’s-breadth from putting their nurtured spawn in D’Arnath’s chair, and you would not have our Prince fight them? You suggest that some mysterious conjunction of the planets has betrayed our safety, rather than the depraved child who swore undying loyalty to our enemies. And you dare call our course absurd!” Though neither volume nor timbre had changed, Men’Thor burst to his feet with the intensity of his speaking. “You are a good man, Ven’Dar, and Avonar will need your talent when her host ventures forth. But you serve us ill - to the point of treason - when you nurture the Prince’s madness.”
While I blustered like a fool, thinking that yet another round of argument might make some difference, Men’Thor sighed deeply and laid his arm on Radele’s shoulders. “I must go. My men hold the walls of Avonar tonight. I just thought I should share this news with you myself.”
“Thank you, Father. What do you suggest I do with the Preceptor? He was trying to pry information from the prisoner.”
Men’Thor gazed at me mournfully. “We will never convince Preceptor Ven’Dar of our position. The best we can do is prevent cowards of his ilk from influencing the Prince. Our duty is to keep D’Arnath’s Heir focused on his proper business - the survival of Avonar, of the Vales, of Gondai, of the Bridge - until holy Vasrin sees fit to give us a sovereign worthy of D’Arnath’s throne.”
Radele smiled broadly and embraced Men’Thor. “As you say, Father. The tide is turning.”
Radele stood in the doorway, watching his father descend the stairs. Then he turned back to face me. “My father is a wise man, Preceptor. Shall I demonstrate how we shall keep our mad Prince focused on his duty?” He was smiling.